


the movie’s playing, but we won’t be watching tonight

by kattyshack



Series: come on home and turn me on [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Roommates, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 18:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Sansa lowkey wants to Netflix and chill, and Jon hasn’t a clue.(title from “moonlight,” by ariana grande)





	the movie’s playing, but we won’t be watching tonight

Five people living in a three-bedroom leads to close quarters, to say the least. Before Arya and Sansa’s rather unprecedented move-in, Robb, Theon, and Jon had got on just fine with their minimal space. But an extra couple of bodies made all the difference.

The adjustment had been slow going, but eventually the group came up with a system that works for all of them: Sansa and Arya, who keep the most regular hours and boast the most reasonable tempers, share the back bedroom; Robb has a room to himself, as his job as a lawyer means he needs more privacy to decompress, and anyway he pays the bulk of the rent; and Jon and Theon’s schedules run so oppositely that it’s easy enough to switch off who gets the bed, but Theon could sleep through a nuclear blast so he doesn’t mind crashing on the couch.

The sleeping arrangements had been easily remedied, but the flat is still a hubbub of activity. While the flatmates themselves are rarely home at the same time, their friends and family are a near-constant presence—between Bran and Rickon’s sleepovers, the Tyrells’ Tequila Tuesdays, Yara’s ever-increasing visits to flirt with Margaery, and poker nights that include Sam, Pyp, Grenn, Edd, Tormund, and Gendry, a moment of peace is hard to come by. Arya shelled out for noise-cancelling headphones for just this reason, but it’s no skin off Robb and Theon’s social graces to play host. Sansa handles the overcrowding with her signature grace, but Jon’s introverted sensibilities have their breaking point. Sometimes he just needs his goddamn _space_ , which they all very well know and (usually) respect.

So when Jon takes a pass on trivia night at the pub in favor of a few hours of solitude, Robb and Theon only rib him a little bit before Arya finally gets them out the door— “Take the piss some other time, would you? Idiots. I need a drink.”

When the door shuts behind them and their laughter fades down the corridor, Jon heaves his greatest sigh in recent memory, collapses on the couch, and starts browsing Netflix. _Sweet, sweet relief…_

He’s in the thick of an overdramatic police procedural when his half-hearted thoughts of dinner are interrupted by the rattle of keys in the lock. The door swings open to reveal perhaps the sweetest sight Jon’s ever laid eyes on: Sansa Stark, clad in leggings and one of his old university T-shirts, with two bags of takeaway in tow.

“You read my mind,” he says when Sansa drops the food on the coffee table.

She grins. “Arya texted, said you were staying in tonight so I thought I would, too. I know you probably want your alone time, but I don’t care.”

“Thanks,” Jon replies with a touch of sarcasm, but he sits up to make room for her on the couch. Lucky thing, too; he knows she would have just sat on top of him if he didn’t. Not that he’d mind that, but… Well…

_Son of a bitch. Snow, you fucking idiot._

“Don’t mention it. Anyway…” Sansa reaches into one of the bags and pops open a carton of egg rolls. “That’s why I sprung for dinner. I still owe you for playing doctor, remember?”

Of course he _remembers_. It was hardly two weeks ago that Sansa had been near-naked when she nicked her ankle shaving, and Jon had been the only one home to help her. He had been the dutiful, altruistic flatmate when he bandaged her up and totally didn’t think about going down on her when he had the chance. Not even a little bit. Please. He never thinks about that.

“We don’t even have to talk, if you don’t want,” Sansa continues. She hands him a box of chow mein and another of Szechuan chicken. “You can brood or whatever it is you do when you’re alone. You won’t even know I’m here, I’ll just sit and quietly stuff my face.”

“Quietly?” Jon echoes. He smirks, and switches the TV drama to one of Sansa’s preferred romantic comedies. “You’re the loudest eater I’ve ever met.”

“Oi!” Sansa protests through a mouthful of her second egg roll. “You say that like you’ve never heard Robb and Arya slurp their soup.”

Jon tries not to laugh. “You chew like a cow.”

Sansa makes a strangled, indignant noise somewhere in the back of her throat, shoves the rest of the egg roll into her mouth, and mutters, “Yeah, well, _you_ chew like… an idiot.”

This time he really does chuckle. “Nice recovery, love.”

“Sod off.” Sansa leans over him to switch off the tabletop lamp. She smells faintly of sweat and the grease that lingers in the air of the Chinese place. A pleasant tingle shoots through Jon’s overeager body. “I’m keeping your shirt now.”

“You’re holding about a quarter of my wardrobe hostage at this point,” Jon reminds her. He slings an arm over the back of the couch and lets her settle against his side. She feels way too good for comfort, but Jon has no self-control and he’s just going to see where that takes him. _My clothes look better on_ _you, anyway_ , he wants to add, but doesn’t. She’s so close that it would be way too easy to kiss her once he’s said it, and he probably shouldn’t do that.

Why not, though? that little voice that’s always telling Jon to _nut up and go for it_ wants to know. But he doesn’t have an answer for it. Why not? Who the hell knows? Not Jon. One of his exes had been fond of telling him that he knew nothing, a comment Jon used to resent; but all things considered, she really wasn’t wrong.

One among the many things Jon Snow doesn’t know, apparently, is how to pick a movie that won’t fuck him up when Sansa’s cuddling with him.

Romantic comedies are just sort of the standby when you’re watching a movie with Sansa. After all she’d been through, she likes a solid two hours of pretending that something else is out there—something better, worthwhile… Something, Jon thinks, that he could give to her. And it’s really, really hard not to think about that when Sansa is leaning into him and they’re watching some sappy love story with the lights down low and no one else at home.

And then there’s Sansa’s affectionate nature. The more guys she dated, the less comfortable she’d become with others’ touches, and she hadn’t been as free with her own. But over the past few months, she’d been getting back into her own groove. When she’s with Arya, Margaery, or Loras, there’s hardly a time Jon can recall when Sansa’s not snuggling or sitting on a lap or piggybacking down the road to the next pub. Bran holds her hand whenever they sit together and Rickon could spend hours playing with her hair. Robb’s always got an arm around her shoulders and Theon’s the only one who can smack her arse and get away with it.

Jon has noticed that Sansa is more hesitant with him, more careful, but tonight she’s deliberate and—dare he say _determined_? As soon as he thinks it, he’s got no idea what he means by it; but then, he never knows shit about what’s going on when it comes to Sansa. If he knows one thing in this whole stupid world, it’s that he doesn’t know a damn thing at all.

And so his predicament is this: He’s alone in the flat with her for two more hours at least, the lights are low and atmospheric, there’s a couple snogging on the telly, and Sansa’s arm is around his waist, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt and occasionally brushing his skin beneath it. Her hair is tickling the underside of his chin and her breath is warm and spiced from the food when it hits his neck. One of her breasts is pressed against his side and Jon is going into _“Don’t get a boner, man, I swear to god, DON’T”_ overdrive.

There’s plenty to enjoy about this predicament, but his frantic attempts at talking himself out of an erection aren’t among the benefits.

Engrossed in these thoughts as he is, Jon barely registers the press of Sansa’s fingertips at his hip bone, or the way her thumb dips beneath his jeans _just_ _so_. But he’d be a dumbass and a half if he didn’t register it at all, so his body jerks and he knocks his chin against her forehead when he splutters out her name: “Sansa—”

“Jon?” She adjusts her position enough to look at him, but her touch doesn’t waver. There’s that deliberation, that determination that set Jon’s blood near to boiling. Her gaze is steady and sure and she says, “You like me, right? Only I’ve been really, dreadfully wrong in the past, so I want to ask before I try to kiss you.”

“You—” Oh, god, _this_ must be what it’s like when your brain malfunctions, then— “you want to kiss me?”

Sansa frowns, just a little, pouting through whatever she’s telling herself in her head. “If you want me to.”

For half a second, Jon considers answering with words—surely a “yes” or some other affirmation would suffice, and then he could taste her like he’s fantasized about for longer than he’d care to admit, if only because his months (years?) of pining make him seem pathetic now—but his brain finally catches up with his baser instincts and, in the end, it works in his favor.

Because how could he not want her?

Before he can over-think it, Jon’s hand is on her jaw and he’s dipped his head to take her mouth in the middle of her next question—it had just been his name, just an unsure utterance of _Jon?_ , but he doesn’t want to make her doubt another moment. So he takes her lips—his bottom between hers and her top between his—and releases a sigh of relief to rival that of the one that left him when he’d been left alone in the flat.

Now, he’s alone _with her_ , and that’s the only kind of loneliness he wants to know from now on.

So he cups the back of her neck and kisses her harder. Sansa responds to his fervor with a breathy little moan he’d like to commit to memory, and as such he’s bound and determined to elicit that sound from her as often as he can.

“Okay—” Jon’s voice is raspy when he surfaces for air and his mouth seeks her throat— “for the record, I’ve wanted to do this for— _fuck me_ , forever—”

“Oh, thank god.” Sansa’s laugh is shaky. One hand clutches his curls and the other slides up his shirt while he kisses her neck. “I really thought I’d messed this up for a minute there.”

“Nuh-uh.” Jon shakes his head emphatically even as he sucks a purple mark behind her ear. He grips her ‘round the knee and jerks her backwards, so that she laughs again—this time the sound mingles with a surprised shriek that Jon finds he likes just as much—and falls flat on her back against the couch. “You could run me down with my own car and not mess this up.”

 _“Really?”_ She sounds intrigued, perhaps more so than Jon would normally be comfortable with if her legs weren’t wrapped around his waist. But at this point he could die happy so, like, whatever. “Because I’ve tried flirting with you before and it doesn’t seem to stick. ‘Just let me know what you want when you want it,’ and you didn’t even _think_ —”

“Shut up.” He’s pulling kisses from her lips again, and he feels like an idiot. Not for the kissing, never for that, just for how long it took him to actually do it. “Shut up, Sansa, and let me make it worth your while.”

Jon swallows her appreciative little hum when he takes her mouth again, open and hot and eager. She tastes like deep fried something and a snap of lemon-lime soda. He loves her fingers tangled in his hair, and the hand she’s smoothing over his ribcage, loves the way her nails bite into his skin, and he’s sure to be marked with the little half-moons of her touch.

He loves the arch of her back when she presses closer, and her spark of impatience when she whimpers into the kiss, takes his hand and guides it to her chest. She’s definitely _definitely_ braless beneath his shirt; the realization as he’s feeling her up sends an excited jolt through his already-excited body, and his hips grind into hers when she moves against him.

No amount of talking himself down is going to get rid of his erection now, that’s for sure. But if the enthusiastic press of Sansa’s body is any indication, she prefers it this way.

The telly is a low rumble of sound, flashes of color and dialogue that are nothing but a haze of sensory experience that doesn’t touch them the way they’re touching each other. Jon has the errant thought that maybe he should switch it off, but then Sansa’s tongue is on his neck and he forgets everything else.

“Get this out of the way,” Jon grumbles, pushing the hem of her— _his_ —shirt up, but his hand bypasses the waistband of her leggings to cup her through them instead. He strokes his fingers against the cotton barrier, reveling in the way she pushes her pussy into his touch. He plucks kisses from her gasping lips. “Want me to touch you more?”

“Mhmmm.” Sansa rocks upwards to kiss him harder, her teeth catching his bottom lip and sucking it into her mouth.

Jon groans, and he meets her bite for bite. Their breath is coming in short, harried bursts through their noses as the kiss grows sloppier in their eagerness. He can’t bother teasing her further; his hand scrambles for her waistband and— _fuck me_ , she’s not wearing panties, either—his fingers take her cunt the way his cock wants to, and his mouth is watering to do the same. He wants to taste her, feel her, get his tongue inside of her and swallow the way that she wants him.

He eases one finger inside of her, then dips another. He thrusts into her with his touch, and against her with his cock, hard and ready and wanting her, _always_ fucking wanting her. Her breath is hot in his ear while he mouths at her neck, littering mark after mark because he doesn’t care who sees, and she makes the most delicious sounds when he sucks on her skin.

“Like this, love?” Jon rasps into the crook of her jaw. His fingers work tirelessly inside her while his thumb rubs her clit, over and over in small, vigorous circles to get her to come with his name on her pretty, swollen lips. “Tell me what you want.”

“Bedroom.” Sansa tugs on his hair to bring his mouth back to hers. The kiss is rushed and messy, teeth clashing as their tongues seek the slide of the other’s. “Come on, Jon, take me to bed.”

He pumps into her once more, then twice, before pulling his hand free; he sucks the taste of her from his fingers, and Sansa looks like she might pounce on him in a hot second. He’s about to do the same—toss her over his shoulder and take her to bed, his or hers or maybe up against the wall because he doesn’t know if he’ll make it down the hall, but he wants to finish what they’ve started and then do it all over again.

And then the fucking door buzzes, and the flat is filled with Theon’s voice coming over the intercom:

“Oi! Arseholes! We just got _smashed_ at trivia, Arya made me run back here and get you two to come over for the next round. You know how she hates to lose, she’s bloody _murderous_ and I’m not about to be her first victim, you hear? Get your shit and let’s go, you’re coming whether you like it or not.”

“We were certainly trying to,” Sansa mutters, looking ready to kill perhaps more so than Arya.

Jon smirks at her the best he can while his chest is heaving and his cock is hard. “Pub’s probably crowded. Maybe they won’t notice if we sneak off to fuck in the loo?”

Theon’s voice cuts through Sansa’s laugh: “Don’t make me come up there!”

“Shit.” Jon catches Sansa’s lips one more time, short and sweet and heated with promise. He pushes off her, thinking that he might _accidentally_ spill a drink all over Theon’s shoes later, and presses the intercom before Theon can burst in on them when they’ve clearly been snogging. “Fuck off, Greyjoy, we’ll be down in five.”

“Make it three!”

Jon heaves another sigh, this one markedly less satisfied than when he’d had Sansa under him. She creeps up behind him then, wraps her arms around his waist and molds her front to his back. She kisses the spot between his shoulder blades. He’ll make it three, all right, he thinks as Sansa tugs playfully on his belt buckle. _Three_ spilled beers on Theon’s outlandishly expensive shoes.

“So…” Jon can feel Sansa’s smile tugging at his shirt. “I guess that’s another IOU, hm?”


End file.
